How crisp is this day? When the leaves rustle like castanets in the hands of a child, chilled to the bone from playing outside too long; and the green grass is tipped with glittering white specks of frozen dew.
Ah, the joy of coming winter. The sun sets before our sup and refuses to rise in the morning, appearing in the east slowly, like a stubborn teenager.
Christmas is but a bargain away, All Hallows Eve a pile of wrappers hidden under the sofa cushion.
And the days are crisp, the nights desirous of a fireplace.